She started forward. "Well, I will see him," replied the knight, after a moment's pause; "he may be from the Earl of Mar. Her aunt was blandly amiable above a certain tremulous undertow, and talked as if to a caller about the alarming spread of marigolds that summer at the end of the garden, a sort of Yellow Peril to all the smaller hardy annuals, while her father brought some papers to table and presented himself as preoccupied with them. But I'm sure it's important. ” Anna shook hands with Brendon—a young man also, but older and more selfpossessed than Sydney Courtlaw. You must forgive the poet’s license I take.
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